


does it bother you?

by playboy



Category: Color Recipe (Manga)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Self-Harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vomiting, the comfort is very slight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27138700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playboy/pseuds/playboy
Summary: sometimes, it’s all he can think about.shoukichi & the beginning of healing.
Relationships: Fukusuke/Shoukichi (Color Recipe)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	does it bother you?

**Author's Note:**

> hiii !! a disclaimer: i do not in any way, shape or form, ship fukusuke/shoukichi, i tagged them to make the fic easier to find. their relationship is v unhealthy, and built off of deceit and lies. fuck fukusuke 2020 !! anyway, hope u enjoy the fic

It bothers him. It really, _really_ bothers him. 

It’s a dull weight, sitting at the back of his mind— but it’s there, it’s _always_ there. He can’t let his mind stray— can’t let the water boil over. 

Sometimes, he’s fine— good, almost. But— other days, he _needs_ a distraction, he needs something, _anything._

He’s taken up smoking, again. It’s disgusting, really. Riku looks at him, an indecipherable look in his eyes, but doesn’t say a word. Mikado-san looks at him, and it’s unmistakeable, the downhearted look in his eyes. He feels bad, almost. _Almost._ (He’s been having trouble feeling anything, these days). 

At home— he keeps the television on, always, _always._ It’s constant, and he’s watched the same soap opera episodes, dozens and dozens of times. He keeps his earphones in— sometimes, he doesn’t even listen to music, content with the slight pressure in his ears.

He doesn’t drink, anymore— he declines invitations to go out to drink— he’s already thrown out his alcohol, all of it. He can’t stand looking at wine— especially when it’s red, it leaves him feeling nauseous, a little lightheaded. He’s thrown them out, given the unopened bottles to the security guard underneath his building. Sometimes, on the slightly better days, he buys himself a canned beer. 

But sometimes— some days, it consumes him. 

He tries— tries to get over it, muscle through it, like he’s done most of his life, but it’s hard. It’s really hard— some days, he can’t even raise his head from his pillow. 

It haunts him— hounds at his mind. At night— he dreams about hands. They’re— all over him— _touching_ him. He can feel them— in his hair, on his skin. They touch his forehead, and trail down his face— brush against his eyelids, they’re clasped around his throat— on his chest, on his stomach. They were _everywhere,_ and all at once. 

He sees— glimpses of bleached hair, and red eyes and feels it— the echoes of the feelings he felt. Pain— _so much_ pain, mixed in with the fear, the anger— creating a disgusting mix of feelings. 

Sometimes, he wakes up, and he’s silent— other times, he wakes up with a scream ripped out of his throat. In both— there is terror, twisting a knot in the pit of his stomach. 

On those days— he tries his best, he really does. 

He drinks water— gallons of it, until his stomach aches. He calls his brother. He tries to feed himself, make himself a nice, balanced meal. He irons his clothes. He makes himself coffee— sweetened with honey. He washes his hair. He takes himself out— pets the neighborhood cats. He starts talking to his high-school friends. He does everything— _anything_ to make the thoughts stop, let his mind rest. 

But sometimes, he can’t— and on some days, he can’t find the strength. 

On those days— he lies in bed, for hours on end. 

And— on those days, he can’t keep anything down— he hunches over the toilet, throws up, and tries to forget the sensation of fingers down his throat. Then— he gets up, goes to the kitchen, just to eat again. 

On those days— he showers with the lights switched off. (Baths— he hates them, now). 

And, on those days, he can’t _stand_ looking at himself in the mirror— he’s already broken the one in the bathroom. He could remember that day, when his skin like rubber— his mind felt like a stone— his tongue felt like ash. He couldn’t feel a thing. 

He couldn’t feel a thing, and he looked at himself— black hair, blue eyes— balled his fingers into a fist and struck the mirror— watching it shatter into a pieces, pain erupting. 

Glass— there was _so much_ of it. It was all over his bathroom— tiny pieces in the torn skin of his knuckles. He stepped on it, purposely— and doubled over, tears springing— but he wasn’t thinking about it— wasn’t thinking about _him._ And that was enough. It was more than enough. 

He picked up the pieces with his bare hands, let the glass cut through his hands— tearing the skin of his palms, nicking his fingers. He bled— let himself bleed and bleed— curling on the cold, bathroom floor. He didn’t cry, that night. 

(Waking up, the next morning— there was still glass in his skin, and there was blood on his shirt. He picked himself up— finished cleaning up, took a shower, and went to work). 

He always feels— on edge. Like— _something_ was wrong— or something was _bound_ to go wrong. _You’re more alert, now_ Riku had said. 

He’s rearranged his furniture more times than he could count. He’s accepted his friends’ offers of helping him. He has a couch, now— and a proper cabinet for his trophies. He’s changed his curtains— switched out his air freshener, too. He has wallpaper, now— walls no longer a bare white. 

(He’s thrown out his bed. He’s torn his clothes at the seams— those ones, the ones he lent _him_ from those days when he _missed the last train._ He’s ripped apart his bedsheets from that night.) 

He’s changed the locks on his door, and added a few extra, too. (He has a baseball bat underneath his bed, he’s only touched it twice). 

He’s bought a new phone— changed his number, his default password, put Mikado-san on speed dial, installed safety apps, switched his email, deactivated his social media accounts (even though he never used them, often). 

He feels dirty. _So_ dirty. 

He feels— disgusting, touching people’s hair, cutting it, coloring it— it feels wrong. _He_ feels wrong. He washes his hands more often, now— the skin of his palms has bend rubbed red and raw by the steaming water. It’s disgusting— all of it. Kazunori— and his heavy pats, the way he slings his arm over his shoulders and Riku— the way he gently grabs his arm, pokes him in the ribs. Sometimes, even Mikado-san and _his_ touches feel wrong and— 

he’s tired— god, he’s _so_ tired. 

He’s outside— taking a smoke break, (they’re new to him). It’s bitter— the smoke, as he inhales it, lets his curl into his mouth. But, he feels strangely calm as he exhales, watching it turn into wisps, and then to nothingness. 

Mikado-san comes out, a few minutes later— he’s quiet. They stare at each other— Shoukichi offers him his lighter, but Mikado-san shakes his head— he doesn’t break his gaze.

His movements are slow— unhurried, as he moves his hands, plucking the cigarette from in-between Shoukichi’s lips— letting it drop the floor, squishing it underneath his shoe. Shoukichi stares at him, a little curiously. 

Mikado-san ignores him. He reaches for his hands, instead— pulls him into a hug. It stuns Shoukichi. 

He shakes— but he doesn’t pull away. His hands scramble— finding purchase, clutching the back of his shirt. Mikado-san tucks his head on top of Shoukichi’s. He can’t breathe. 

“You know I’ll always be here for you, Shou-kun, don’t you?” He whispers, a little wetly. Shoukichi cries for the first time in weeks.

**Author's Note:**

> if u made this far, thank u so much !! i just feel the need to clarify that this was mostly a vent fic for me, and i fully acknowledge the unhealthy nature of the manga. i doubt anyone will read this since ?? it’s p unpopular but if ur here, thank u, hope u liked it <3


End file.
